


this brittle black thread

by symphorophilia (klismaphilia)



Series: Canon Compliant Star Wars Fics [6]
Category: Star Wars Episode VII: The Force Awakens (2015), Star Wars Sequel Trilogy
Genre: Anal Sex, Bad BDSM Etiquette, Canon Compliant, Character Study, Discipline, Dom/sub, EPILOGUE includes MCD, Execution, Fantasizing, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Internal Conflict, M/M, Masochism, Mental Instability, Self-Denial, Self-Indulgent, Service Top, Submissive Armitage Hux, Unrequited Love, optional epilogue
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-01
Updated: 2017-02-01
Packaged: 2018-09-21 00:56:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,504
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9524267
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/klismaphilia/pseuds/symphorophilia
Summary: General Hux was a degenerate. He knew with certainty, because hiscontentmentrelied upon being controlled, made to kneel and serve, devoting himself to a cause with utter submission in a manner befitting of the petty sycophant he knew himself to be.(General Hux was a degenerate and he loathed himself for it.)





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> although this is an idea I've been working on for awhile, I'm dedicating it to [@huxxsux](http://huxxsux.tumblr.com) over on tumblr as a birthday present, as well as pretty much anyone in the fandom I'm friends with for encouraging my (cough*awful*cough) unique writing style. thanks for a decent January.

**this brittle black thread**

…

 _“You are one of God’s mistakes,_  
_You crying, tragic waste of skin.”_ _  
**\- Placebo, Song to Say Goodbye**_

_..._

General Hux was a great many things.

One thing he wasn’t, however, was _content._ Content in his position, in his mentality, in his methodology. And though such a notion would be likely to surprise those who dared ask, who had any idea of the man’s usual immaculate, haughty demeanor, it was of little surprise to the General himself.

In the past thirty-four years, he had known what it meant to be conditioned, to be _ordered,_ to go about life with an attention to structure that had often scared men who were perhaps less wise than he, himself. He knew what it meant to gain control, to be _allowed_ such an achievement, such freedom, and to hold other’s gazes with rapt attention when he spoke.

He also knew that somewhere, burrowed deep inside him and festering, a closed wound only for the time being, that he was _filthy._ A disgusting wretch, someone who knew power, who _coveted_ power, and yet--

He could not stand it.

He could not stand _himself,_ not the person who appeared overly formal to any social gathering, not the man who stood before the mirror in the morning every rotation evening the lines of his uniform, brushing his teeth and combing his hair with a counted number of strokes, adjusting his watch to the precise second before heading off once again. He could not _stand_ life, without orders, without rules and structure and a sense of place, because to lose order would mean losing composure and--

\-- _and what?_

As one might know, there is something in _happiness_ that cannot be found without contentment, without self-realization and a careful consideration of one’s reason to live.

Hux’s happiness relied upon his innermost fantasies. Hux’s _contentment_ relied upon being controlled, being made to kneel and serve and _devote_ himself to a cause like the petty sycophant he was always accused of being. And were he able to admit such a thing to himself, it was likely he would not have been allowed the position he currently held--

_Such a weak-willed boy._

But then, that’s why the Order had needed him.

Because Armitage Hux was _weak-willed._

* * *

 

 

The day after the Order was betrayed could easily have been Hux’s most melancholy. Not his worst, by any means-- _worst_ was resolved for whippings, beatings in the Academy, for those days when he’d had his uniform stolen or been reprimanded for his sheer _presence_ in being made to see his father. Those days were regularly accompanied by feelings of shame, a manic disgust and a sorrow over being a _disappointment,_ a true testament of worthlessness.

Today all Hux could feel was _resignation._ A stunned silence, an impossible disdain for himself as much as the world surrounding him-- all _worthless,_ all deserving of decimation.

His eyes were rimmed by black circles that sunk deep into his pale cheeks, the bones of his slight jaw more slack than they likely should’ve been. He practically felt weighed down by his own body, lulled into a state of transparency by nothing more than a glance from a fellow officer or the brush of fabric against his back when someone deigned to shove past him in the corridor. More often than not it was Ren, or Phasma, both of whom had been just as useless regarding the attack, just as _deserving_ of this projected frustration…

Hux said nothing aside from the ordinary; a scathing glance, a sharp _watch where you’re going, Captain_ and a _would you rather I made a note of the number of successes you’ve cost us recently, Ren?_

Attempts at conversation revealed his mind to be overwrought with a certain unsaid need, something which Hux casually pushed aside as long as he was otherwise occupied. Yet where it had been easy once, now it was anything but-- the General had been drifting through the past weeks in a haze, his head muggy and half-diluted by intrusive thoughts that could not be forced away. The bombardment of menial tasks coupled with the ever present distraction of Kylo Ren was something he could hardly ignore; it lingered over his head, ever present and ever pressing, goading him to his breaking point.

Or, at the very least, the point when he could no longer _suppress_ the sentiment that had been cast upon him.

Of course, Hux wasn’t one to normally allow himself dalliances from the present system of living. He was, for his part, quite content to keep to himself and allow his head to remain down, working fastidiously in devising methods of ship maintenance or weapon design; more specifically, regulations based around the weapons of stormtroopers, so as to isolate from further incident. The turmoil with FN-2187 was a setback in many ways, more than even the ones Kylo Ren seemed so content to point out.

_“Perhaps you should use a clone army.”_

_Clone. Army._

The suggestion was preposterous and undermining at once. Hux couldn’t help but feel the insult was a personal one, a dismissal of _his_ efforts to keep the Order efficient and better contained; nevermind that it was never his system to begin with. It had always been Brendol’s, as it always would be, but the regiment for stormtroopers had remained-- _exceptional._ Exceptional, under his attentions--

_Perhaps you are the reason why our resources seem to be diminishing._

_You conditioned the traitor._

**_You,_ ** _Armitage._

Ren’s mask had been, then, as accosting as it ever was, all the malice and the _anger_ hidden beneath robes of black channeled into the words he’d spit at Hux without care. He’d made him-- almost-- flinch, made him adjust his posture to stand up straighter, even as he felt half ready to drop completely, his stance uneven once he’d shifted. He couldn’t keep the half-made projection of _hurt_ once the Knight checked him, his shoulder shifting in discomfort as he was shoved to the side, made to step down. His voice caught in his throat, incapable of speech around the dryness and the _parched_ feeling, craving--

 _No,_ Hux told himself. _No, you can’t, you’re sick._

His nails dug deep into black fabric as his hands balled into fists. The shudder of something crawling in his blood, just beneath his skin, was so _demanding…_

_Loathsome. Weak._

And he couldn’t _deal_ with it, couldn’t _stand--_ feeling like this, feeling so… so pent-up, so trapped inside his own skin, aching for some sort of gratification to confirm the empty desires he’d been avoiding since his placement in the ranks…

Hux pressed the button on his comm.

“Lieutenant, please see to the bridge. I have just been informed of an emergency meeting regarding the events that took place earlier this cycle.”

* * *

 

 

The walk back to his quarters was made in a state between reality and impossibility, with leaden feet and a holopad still held tight to his chest, as though it could deter the inevitable presence of _Ren_ in his head, everywhere, _Ren Ren Ren._ He fumbled with his own code, head down and avoiding the lurking watch of those around him-- if Hux felt any contentment with this situation, it was only a satisfaction in knowing those aboard his ship were too intimidated to approach him, too…

_Weak._

That word, _weak,_ and a quiver pulses through him, _weak,_ and he stumbles inside and trips over his own feet, pulling himself on his knees to the edge of his own bed, sliding his face against what appeared to be a corner of the mattress, as though it could be _more,_ could somehow help. Hux imagines parting his legs, sliding them apart from each other to allow Ren room to wedge a boot between his skinny thighs, pressing the toe right up against his balls in a manner most menacing.

He could consider, here, the corner of the bed, as something else-- could imagine Ren’s _cock,_ sliding across his face and rubbing over his pink lips as he eagerly stretched his lips around the tip, suckling and sliding forward with his head bowed to take Kylo in full. He wondered if the Knight would jerk his hair, then, whether he would slam Hux’s head back while he fucked his face, made saliva pool on his tongue until he was drooling and choking on cum like some outer rim trash.

And that’s what he was, wasn’t it? A needy whore from Arkanis, a bastard, longing for--

 **_I_ ** _am weak._

Hux’s back arched and he slid, further, onto the floor, rolled over onto his back as his hands struggled to divest himself of trousers, jodhpurs, the well-fastened belt about his waist. His fingers, slim and uncalloused, pinched at the curve of his own hips, desperate for _contact,_ something more than this. It was only once his pants were pooled around his knees, his own bare flesh hot against the metallic texture of the floor, that Hux _cried._

Fingers pushed into his mouth without preamble, the saliva he’d managed to gather in the hot cavern slick along the tips, drawing circles on his tongue as he licked over his own hand as though it were more _filling_ than it actually was.

He pulled himself up onto his knees, face pressed hard into his own free arm as he moved the hand from his mouth to the space behind him, the soft crease of his ass, muscle tight and refusing entry. His perineum was sensitive to the touch, the cool air across his hole presenting an opportunity Hux had thought of more often than he should, a slight smattering of freckles along his pale cheeks. He dipped the tip of his forefinger along the puckered crevasse, began to pry himself apart with two fingers, exposing himself further…

_\-- inside, I want something inside, want him to pin me here and force me to take him in full, deeper and deeper until he bottoms out, stretches me open and exposes me like the disgusting--_

The first digit slid home, two knuckles in as Hux’s teeth clenched tight, completely bristling. He writhed, caught in the mania of _delusion,_ the heat of what could possibly if only Ren would _look_ at him, he just needed to _look_ at him, needed to see him for what he could be, _his, his, his…_

The brush of his own solid length along the floor catches Hux off guard, and he bucks forward, sharply, rutting on tile, debasing himself like an animal. A _jolt,_ and his mind is filled by white light, bearing down on him and dropping his own mind like a rock back into his skull. Stripes of white hit the surface beneath him, smeared over the inside of his thighs, the band of his uniform; Hux _yells,_ muffled into his own arm, wracked with a white-hot _pain_ as he collapses in a disheveled heap.

 _This_ is true perversion.

 _This_ is weakness. Weakness, the very thing his father had tried to purge him of, just as his instructors would, as _Snoke_ did, yet they all knew. They all knew how much he needed to obey, how much he wanted to _let go,_ to be _taken from._

Armitage blinked the hot, messy trails of tears away as best he could, curling in on himself. If he had the decency, he might be capable of redressing himself… or showering, quickly, trying to…

He can’t bring himself to stand.

Somewhere, in the back of his mind, he imagines an over-large hand tangled in ginger locks, a thumb pushing into the small of his back, arms around him as though he were a fragile, broken plaything.

_At ease now, General. This is what you wanted._

* * *

 

 

General Hux was decidedly more degenerate than he had previously realized.

Of course, it had to do with the fetishization, first and foremost. The unnatural _deviance_ of Hux’s own thought pattern, something so ridiculous it was almost impossible to stomach. And Hux was all too aware of that; of how _absurd_ it would be for him to slide onto his knees and prostrate himself before Kylo Ren, to offer up his own being for the Knight’s use, especially when it was well known the man was certifiably mad.

Kylo Ren was a scourge to existence. He was a man whose entire personality was comprised of little besides unseemly attitudes and disrespect. Moody, chaotic-- capricious. Always disgusted, always _glaring,_ watching Hux with the disdain of an enemy rather than a colleague. Hux had already accepted that Ren was a brooding child, and if it hadn’t already been seen in his casual dismissal of the General, his inability to even capture a single _droid_ was proof enough.

Yet, perhaps… perhaps that was exactly why Hux _desired._

Because Ren was the _antithesis_ of a proper human being.

Hux couldn’t fathom how his mind had decided that _Kylo Ren_ was enticing. But then, aside from an occasional sharp jolt of electricity inside his ribcage when the Knight passed, or the trajectory of his wandering thoughts late at night, there was no real proof he _did_ find the man enticing. This… infatuation, perhaps, was more easily passed off as an admiration of Ren’s power, a domineering aura that spoke of chaos. He had the bulk of a soldier, the blade of a Sith and the arrogance of a ruler.

(In essence, he was the perfect type of man to bend Hux over a console and chain him there, pin him up against the wall and slam into his ass until the General was absolutely screeching with the sheer intensity of his pleasure. Hux knew himself well, knew what he had always admired in terms of physique and displays of control, and Ren was a man made for battle. _He was authoritative.)_

(And that longing… that was a subject best left untouched.)

Before, at the very least, Hux had been able to channel his annoyance with the Knight’s frequent moodiness and evident apathy toward him into something useful. He’d taken on more shifts, spent hours awake during the earliest hours of a new rotation and slaving over mission reports, approvals on new additions to Starkiller and addressing revisions to the rulebook on base etiquette. He’d never been a heavy sleeper anyway; there wasn’t a need, when Hux knew his place and the weight of his position. He had been ambitious enough that it motivated him to maintain a thorough sense of control in all aspects of his life, particularly his professional state of being.

That luxury was gone, now, discarded in favor of Hux instead being forced to spend hours with Ren in confined quarters because of a failure that was laid over _his_ shoulders. Hux, not Ren, not even when it was the Knight’s refusal to _listen_ that jeopardized the success in capturing Resistance intel.

He tried to ignore Ren, attempting to muddle through his tasks without being distracted by the brutish force breathing down his neck. But it was impossible, when it was the _breathing_ which got to him more than anything else, that dismissal of his existence with a turn of the head, a scoff from Ren’s mouth when Hux dared ask him a question.

“I thought you were supposed to be _intelligent,_ General,” Ren would tell him, and Hux’s mouth would run dry, a shudder coursing down his spine.

Every day, like clockwork. Every day, there was a dismissal, a _rejection._ As though he--

_Couldn’t do anything right._

Well he couldn’t, not really. Brendol had made him more than aware of that. The other cadets at the Academy, in his year, had been more than _eager_ to point out his flaws, his mistakes, anything that was so much as overheard in passing.

It was a hellish experience.

_(It made him crave debasement, particularly when the derision came in the form of hissed words from older men.)_

He remembered the first time that Ren dared to touch him in one of these business interludes, a stiff palm across his cheek, wrenching Hux’s chin up to look him in the eye and _spit._ And _oh, Ren’s face,_ while asymmetrical and rather odd, was so… _youthful._ Appealing in a manner which Hux was uncertain how to describe, the large nose and the glinting eyes drilling holes through his own center. If it weren’t so imperative that he _protect himself,_ Hux might have shivered-- wanted to, wanted to shudder and lean back and allow Ren to _take what he wanted, anything he wants--_

“It’s no wonder the Order is constantly being compromised when its _finest General_ can hardly focus on a debrief,” Ren had remarked, offhandedly. His fingers-- long and thick, probing-- jerked Hux’s chin up further, gauging his reaction. “Rather funny how many things have been escaping your notice... though in the end it’s nothing shocking, is it, Hux?”

Hux’s breath hitched, imagining the Knight’s gloved hand elsewhere-- yanking roughly on his ginger hair or sliding across the supple curve of his rear. He sank teeth into his lip, callously frowned. “And _what,_ Ren, is _that_ supposed to mean? Do tell.”

“You don’t want control.”

And with that there was a visible stiffness, the General’s spine locked firmly into place, a soft jerk as he attempted to avert his position of being made to face Ren unwittingly. To have another’s fingers on him like this was demanding, practically _urging_ Hux to crumble, to prostrate himself in shame at the man’s feet, to--

Ren smirked. And then he continued, “You want someone to _own_ you. To _show_ your rightful place-- at another’s feet, waiting for their next command.”

Hux drew his hand away, his back smacking against the rear of the chair. He faltered, then, shuddering and pulling away from the force-user, allowing his gaze to fall onto a shaking hand balled tight in a fist. A sense of coldness filled his body, bones aching and knees weak as he finally stood, adjusting his greatcoat over his slight shoulders with a sideways glance to Kylo.

“Get _out,_ Ren.”

* * *

 

 

Each rotation began in a regular, orderly fashion. Each rotation ended much in the same way-- or at the very least, it would for most officers. However, Hux was no regular officer. Neither in his mechanical social conduct or the near-ravenous manner with which he took to his tasks, quick to sink back into order, yet truly _passionate._

Deeply passionate _._ The emotional aspect of his being often wasn’t present when he was forced to adhere to such a stringent routine, but his speeches had always been a particular spot of pride amongst Armitage’s otherwise bland state of being. And yet now, faced with a certain future and a chance at self-preservation, he was unable to even remember the basis of _words._ His body not only ached, it felt-- _demanding,_ yearning for something he could not be given, yearning for...

Submission.

The desire to be _dominated._

He couldn’t understand why he was suddenly so needy, suddenly so _desperate_ for something he hadn’t bothered to consider in the past thirty-three years of his existence. Perhaps it was merely for the sweetness of knowing how… _frowned upon_ such desires were, the repercussions that might be drawn were he to suddenly lose his composure-- or worse, his own head, his _mind,_ which seemed to be in a state of decline with every passing moment.

He had thought to clear his misconceptions by holding conference on the bridge, a place where Hux had always found himself comforted by the commonality of duty. Military routine was just as ordinary as it was pertinent; a well-founded chance that he was gifted to drown his thoughts in, motions that were easily regulated and maintained.

So, here he was. Standing atop the bridge in his rightful position, gazing out the viewport and thinking of-- _what was he thinking of?_ The more Hux attempted to apply himself, the further from success he fell; slipping deeper and deeper into oblivion. His mentality was inescapable, uncontrollable. Perhaps, if he had been a stronger man, he would have seen fit to subject himself to reconditioning.

For here, before all his officers, he was still _thirsting._ Were it not for the eyes resting firmly on his body from every angle, he might’ve given into his own debasement again-- _anything for the feel of Ren’s hands on his skin, anything for that mouth and that blade marking him deep and running him through, a bloody mess serving the Knight on his knees…_

The silence in the room was uncomfortable-- astounding, even, as though Hux had only just realized the taciturn procession of those in the room, not even a faint smattering of chatter. Questioning gazes danced on his skin, like flames catching the wings of a dying insect before it is burned alive.

 _“What?”_ Hux snapped, as though anything would dissuade this… disgust.

“Sir, we… there was a question-” Unamo piped up, somewhere in the distance. Hux’s brow furrowed.

“Is it answered?”

“Well… yes.”

Hux waved his hand, careless. _“Well then?_ Back to work, all of you. _Now._ ” His boots clicked against the platform of the ship’s bridge, down the three steps separating him from the central deck, between the rows of men and women occupied at their consoles or with comms. _Frivolous behavior,_ the General considered; _Even I am aware of that. If there is any sort of dissent--_

“General.”

And there it was, as he rounded the corner to the click of metal doors behind him, that haunting voice he’d dreamed about for weeks. Ren’s voice, pitched so deep it threatened to render Hux limb from limb with a mere few words. A hand caught his wrist violently, out of sight amidst the black of his robes and the backdrop of the hallway before them, yet Hux startled all the same, clenched teeth and a surprised jump made to ward off his own yearning, his own--

“You’re projecting,” Ren told him, with the same _impersonal_ tone that he used intermittently with most everyone. He was still so _close,_ too close for Hux to thread together even a few moments of coherency. Though it was likely made to be impersonal, Hux’s body continued to react, knowledgeable in his own desperation to bend over and reveal himself to the Knight fully. Armitage was _pressed_ to beg for redemption, seeking his own absolution through whatever punishment the Knight might have chosen to give him, the lust for someone to chain him, to use him...

“I’ve been overwhelmed by keeping the ship in order.”

“The ship?”

“The-- the _affairs,_ with the ship, and Starkiller. None of which have been made any easier by _you,_ might I add. I have been made to sign _far_ too many dossiers requesting funds for new equipment that was, I quote, ‘destroyed with an elongated blade during an accident’.” His breathing turned rough, coarse and harrowed, burdened solely by the sheer _force_ of Ren’s presence. Hux’s hair was messy, icy skin slicked with sweat, and he found his uniform suddenly far too constrictive, too-- _heavy,_ a weak chest rasping for air that he couldn’t muster.

 _As if I wasn’t humiliated enough in the first place._ Hux nearly reared away, shaking his head with a disgusted curl of his lower lip. A black-gloved hand was still tight on his wrist, the soft, easily pliable appendage rendered useless and prone to breaking should Ren pull any further…

Hux straightened his back, shuddered when Ren moved closer, his lips brushing Hux’s ear for only a faint second. A thumb caressed the translucent white of his forearm where a sleeve had been tugged up, knowing eyes honed in on Hux’s face, a warm breath ghosting over his neck.

“Go to your quarters, General.”

It wasn’t a suggestion, no-- not a suggestion but an _order,_ hissed with the tone of a man who wanted nothing more than to _mock_ him, wanted to-- to force Hux into his place, whatever that may be.

 _Isn’t that what you want?_ The voice in his head mused, somewhere between Armitage and the General, impossible to discern fully.

Ren checked him again, a swift push to Hux’s shoulder startling his balance as the Knight strode off in capricious apathy. Hux’s fingers had been balled into the midst of his own fist, nails sunk like daggers into his own pale flesh, eyelids fluttering as he tried to coerce his own breathing back to a moderate level. His own body seemed to be slack, lacking in the autonomy which he always wielded…

_Now, General._

The whisper spurred his movements, his head once again tilting upward, a haughty lift of his chin and a glare that oozed spite as he made his way into the main corridor, passing a trooper, and officer-- careless, of course. His momentum was driven by a _need,_ this fervent wish to reach his own quarters, to pull himself inside as he tore his clothes away, to drop onto his hands and knees and do as he was instructed.

_Let go. Just let yourself..._

* * *

 

 

Hux fell silent, his tongue caught in his mouth and sticky, reminiscent of having his throat filled by sand, a coarse substance made to sit in his mouth until he was stifled. Every movement he made was hesitant, measured, even without the presence of another being in the room alongside him. It was, certainly, an inane position for him to be in-- caught pining after Kylo Ren, lying stretched out across his bed in nothing more than a flimsy white undershirt and undone pants, ever anticipating the Knight’s arrival.

Hux longed to touch himself, like this. He longed to be on his back, laid out like a fine picture before the being who had so often occupied his thoughts, legs parted with nimble fingers teasing his lower body. _Only for Ren_ , he would tell himself, _only Ren,_ as though anyone else would even be capable of holding his attention. Subordination and structure… where was the intrigue in their confinement? No, it was _always_ that obstinate bastard, always Ren, with his overlarge body, his forceful displays of rage, the stature of his being in battle--

“Strip yourself.”

And there he was, looming above the General with his mask still firm in place over his face, the vocoder obscuring his voice. It provided for quite a menacing distortion. Ren hadn’t bothered to disrobe at all-- instead he stood fully clad in his own gear, his leather gloves flexing along his own skin while he watched Hux kick his pants away from stick-skinny legs.

“Ren?”

 _“Lord_ Ren,” The Knight corrected, demanding. “But for you I will allow an exception, Hux. You will call me _‘Master.’”_

The tilted, yielding curve of Hux’s exposed neck as Kylo fisted a hand in his bright hair was only a physical sign of his mental incompetence. He seemed weak now, bare with his head held back and two fingers caressing his spit-slick lips, hardly a bone in his body made for contention. If it were anyone else, the Knight might have even saw fit to call him _beautiful._ This was the only way Kylo would have him-- the only way he might _enjoy_ Hux, when the General was eager and arching back against his chest.

He found it satisfying. A retribution, a chance for him to observe the _demeaning_ behavior of his rival who saw fit to walk around in uniform demanding control. But Hux’s haughty, egocentric manner was only a front for the true prevalence of his desire for submission-- the desire which _ate_ at him, made him squirm.

Hux could hardly process Kylo’s words, it seemed, when he was held like this. His consciousness appeared as a vacant mass, mind careless and disorganized, flitting through the connotation of that word which pinched at his tongue. _Master._ A term laid in his throat like a forbidden fruit, gifted to him for his compliance. The General’s hands were drawn into fists from the utterance alone, and he flinched as his wrists were seized once more, body flipped around and down onto a firm mattress. Startled, he cried out, flinching as the Knight settled atop him to press his lithe form down along the black coverlets.

Hands that easily cut down line after line of soldiers with neither shame nor mercy were upon chilled flesh, roaming across Hux’s unmarked skin, pinching at his nipples and bruising the protrusion of the General’s ribs. Kylo’s touch was belligerent, unconcerned with the bruises he stamped over Hux’s pallor, a prying and invasive trail of fingertips scoring him as he parted freckled thighs. Hux didn’t need further encouragement to spread himself, opening to the touch naturally, a barely lucid gaze swollen with tears as his shoulders locked up and his body arched like a bow’s curve.

He shut his eyes.

There were ropes, then, being tethered around his ankles, Hux’s legs bent at the knee to allow better handling. Being urged into his true position and told to grovel like an impuissant captive-- it was wrong, wrong enough that it felt _right,_ a coercion into falling apart as he threw himself at Ren, quivering, nodding, fervent for the fix of an aggressive treatment as his hole was traced, then prodded unevenly by a single digit.

“Ren, please--” the Knight’s vocoder echoed a soft wheeze of laughter at Hux’s bitten lip, head cast to one side, punctuated moans at each touch to his needy center.

“What do you call me, Armitage?”

 _“Master-!”_ Hux wailed, toes curling. His back slid over the rumpled sheets, the hands holding him in place disappearing for a second, only for a slick finger to trace him once more and _push._

The first hint of penetration could nearly have broken the General, with how open his mind was, how consumed by emotion. He struggled to angle himself, wanting the exposure, wanting the _burn,_ the stretch and ache as his body capitulated to the Knight’s greater physique.

A second digit was applied without preamble and Hux’s mind seemed to go blank, intent on _taking_ and being taken, _whatever you want, Master, whatever I can give--_

Those thick appendages curled and slammed upward, hit that knot inside that pulled Hux tighter, muscles clamped around whatever was filling him and sparking the surreal pleasure. Drool escaped from the corner of his mouth, an oversensitive body thrusting against the air and pleading.

The stretch grew, then, greater, overwhelming, and Hux could hardly understand what was happening, his own ruin so close and yet-- distant, too far off, likely lost. His ankles stung as he kicked at the binds, body slamming down on nothing, his hole spasming and then _widening,_ open and slack as the fullness began to grow, hotter and hotter--

“ _Nnngh!”_ Hux gasped between clenched teeth, the imaginary presence rubbing into his prostate, refined circles that shot electricity through his nerves, a sob escaping him when he was jabbed directly. He tightened, clutched warm and compact on that growing force, rutting into it and twisting, shouting, intent on chasing the feeling as best he could. He needed _more,_ to be stuffed full, to be pushed into and claimed, owned, this was-- it wasn’t…

A line of blood had appeared on Hux’s chest, pain coursing through him and filling him with fire; he curled into himself, a meager defense, only for a sudden strike to be felt against his _cock,_ his body jumping with the added genital pain. He was so stiff it burned, and the tight hold around his tip, the hit of leather across his thighs aroused like nothing else. Pained eyes flew open and Hux’s sweet spot was suddenly being _pounded,_ thrust after thrust after thrust, tensing and flexing his hole, his rim pulled apart and inner walls contracting over and over.

“You like that, General? Having your slutty hole spread and _fucked?_ It’s so needy for it, isn’t it, aching to be nice and full even while you’re working. You think I don’t notice, when you’re standing on the bridge, how your mind wanders to _this?_ Having a fat cock stuffed up inside you?”

Another smack landed across the now red-stained thighs, slim lines crisscrossing Hux’s legs, his abused body leaning into each touch, soft whines echoing from his sensitivity. He screamed, now, screamed when his prostate was nudged again, unable to come when he was edging on a lack of sense, stretching and kicking and pulling at the sheets above him, wanting to open himself further, wanting _more,_ something bigger and thicker, _fill me up, degrade me, I’m disgusting, I’m_ **_disgusting-!_ **

“What did you do to handle your urges before this, Armitage? Did you spend your nights lying on this bed, your ass open, stuffing yourself with as many fingers as you could fit? Making yourself _stupid_ from a need to be deflowered, your body thirsty for attention on the only place it really matters? You’re not a _General._ You’re hardly a _man._ ”

“No, no, no--” Hux rambled in time with the precise jolts of ecstasy, writhing. _No no no._

“Are you a General, Hux? _Are you?_ No. You’re a filthy, sick _whore,_ so fucked in the head that you’d bend over for the Supreme Leader if he asked for it. Repulsive little _harlot._ You don’t deserve this. I wouldn’t even bother if you weren’t so _loud_ all the time, projecting your lust everywhere like a kriffing sex slave--”

 _“Please!”_ Hux screamed, and then Kylo was shoving _in,_ slick with lube and his cock barely out of his trousers. The mask was gone now, but the eyes that were staring at him were _bitter,_ betrayed, revolted.

“You’re _vile,”_ Ren tells him as he comes, pulsing inside Hux’s body, another jerk of his hips when he settles and then pulls back as if he can’t remove himself fast enough. Hux is leaking, then, and the pressure is released and the shriek that leaves his throat is _piercing,_ pointed and drawn out just as his orgasm was, the slickness spurting over his soft abdomen, his undefined chest, _please, please, please, Ren, I know, I know I’m sick, take care of me, just--_

A finger trailed along his stained perineum, pressing the leaking remnants of Kylo’s cum back inside him, Hux’s trembling thighs slack as the bonds were dropped, his feet numb. The Knight’s gaze hovered along his face for a second, and only a second, and then he was _full_ again, a sleek, black plug sticking out from his defiled entrance, keeping him filled and sated, a true _present._

“This will not happen again,” Kylo told him, and Hux nodded, agreeing, _anything you need, anything, I won’t project anymore, thank you--_

He reaches forward with purpled wrists, pale hands, not given even a second to catch the Knight’s robes when he’s shoved back against the bed, a blanket tossed over him carelessly, Hux’s uncertain expression falling when he heard the echo of footsteps move away, the door clicking open and then closing right after.

Ren was gone.

Shame gnawed at Hux’s gut, his sense of failure so strong that it cornered him, refused to let him move or even shift on the sheets, shuddering and cold and wishing he was _dead,_ anything but this. This _curse,_ his mind, his state of being that could never be overcome, and _pfaask, this was a mistake, you’re so foolish, so weak, how can you ever make anything of yourself?_

Hux bit his lip, but he didn’t cry.

Crying, of course, was weakness-- and weakness was a perversion that he had already allowed himself one too many times.

* * *

 

 

“Today is the end of the Republic! The end of a regime that acquiesces to _disorder!_ At this very moment, in a system far from here, the New Republic _lies_ to the galaxy while secretly supporting the treachery of the loathsome Resistance!”

Conjuring words had never taken Hux much time at all; he was a natural orator, in the sense that anything could come out of his mouth and he would be able to back his position on it wholeheartedly, without falter. Speaking the truth that had been conditioned into his mind was something effortless-- regardless of whether or not anyone believed him. After all, it was true, what they’d said before-- that words from a sharp tongue were as deadly as a blade, that they could _kill_ as easily as a blaster.

“This fierce machine which you have built, upon which we stand will bring an _end_ to the Senate, to their _cherished fleet._ ”

And kill, Hux did. He fought dirty, even without being placed on a battlefield, with little care for the wellbeing of those who he was taught to view as _enemy_ rather than ally. Treachery, some called it, often the few who would claim that the General was a narcissist. And perhaps it was true, in some manner.

Armitage Hux had never claimed innocence, after all, and nor did he want to.

He was conditioned for this, this _evilness,_ and to be wretched was as much a part of him as his own _weak will._ But it was weak will that could be _focused,_ the type of weakness that could _destroy_ when given an opportunity. His judgment was sound. His _mentality_ was--

_“All remaining systems will BOW to the First Order!”_

\-- as focused as it had ever been, as _clear,_ the passion from his own recognition fluttering throughout his body, even through the tips of his toes. It prickled at his skin, a wonderful tingling of _excitement,_ the sound of his own voice erasing his own filth, if only for a passing moment.

“And they will remember this as the _last day_ of the Republic!”

Hands clasped tightly behind his back, Hux stood, attentive, as the first beam of red entrenched upon the galaxy, a spark, firelight in his own dull vision. His head thrummed with the energy beneath his feet, the- the _power_ in his hands, rare and exquisite for this singular moment.

He almost thought he could feel it.

The obliteration, the hatred…

_The terror._

Perhaps he had, in some small manner that was presented by merely existing. Perhaps it was _guilt_ that was churning his gut, and yet guilt was never something Armitage had deemed necessary to feel, not when he had felt _only guilt_ for so long.

Guilt at being born.

Guilt from being successful.

Guilt from allowing petty _indulgence_ to distract him from his proper career, his _gifted_ place amongst the Order’s ranks.

( _guilt, weak, guilt, self-flagellating, beatings, murder, slitting my own wrists, letting him chain me, letting him use me, my father’s curses, the shame, humiliation, weakness, fingers across my mouth,_ inside _me, urging, scars over my back, bruised throat, choking, longing, craving power, craving to be_ underneath _power, INDULGENCE, WEAK WEAK--)_

**Emptiness.**

* * *

 

 

Kylo’s body had been heavy when Hux had knelt in an attempt to lift him from the bank of snow, right him on his feet once more. Everything around him felt dark-- the ebb and flow of pressure close to breaking his bones as he writhed, hooking the Knight’s well-muscled arm across his own skinny shoulders. Something in Hux’s chest cried out, a dull, throbbing pain sunk deep inside him, both elated at the possibility of touching this man again and--

 _Loathing._ Self-loathing and aware of his own certain flagellation, the way Kylo would smirk at him once they were back onboard the _Finalizer,_ the disdain smeared over his face nothing other than a sick _echo_ of what Hux had sought after for so long.

And really, he should’ve known better. _Armitage_ should have known better, after the first time, the near death of his own personality from what was asinine idolatry.

… he still _needed._ Still pined over warm, heavy flesh, a sculpted body chiseled like stone, those dark eyes glinting with a melancholic enmity he could never _unsee._ Hux remembered trembling, remembered his own bruised skin, the marks fanned out along his alabaster flesh, ruining him like the _toy_ he was meant to be. He longed for those bruises, longed for the memory of _submission,_ of being opened roughly and stretched wide, of fingers plundering his most sacred orifice until they had enticed heady moans from his throat once again.

But the worst spot to linger was the aftermath. The _finish,_ the orgasm, the little death, which had haunted his thoughts more frequently than the rest of it together. His parted thighs, torn open by nails and a blade alike, seeping blood from raised welts in the flesh. Watching as Kylo drew fingers over the length of rope securing his ankles to the bed, keeping him suspended there like a whore, a defiled _flower_ made only for the Knight’s service. The sticky trails of white splattered across his still clenching hole, half trickled out of him as Ren drew closer, dipped a finger along the slit of his perineum, slid it back into him. How Hux had gone stiff in alarm, his body little more than a hot, warm clutch for whatever Ren saw fit.

And it was his own fault, of course, for being foolish-- for being impuissant, desiring something that a person such as Hux was not allowed to have. The companionship of another being, the… _sentiment_ provided by being used, dominated, brought to heel before someone of more value than himself… it had been _so pleasant_ while it lasted.

Now, Kylo looked at him, and he looked with distaste, the stare of someone who had only ever _hated._ And Hux must have been blind, not to have noticed before this, when Ren would check him or gaze over his head as though he didn’t exist, when he saw fit to tell Hux _you’re nothing, General,_ to push him into a corner and devalue him.

Perhaps it might not have ruined him, had Ren not said what he did in the shuttle after Starkiller, traveling away from the dying base. Perhaps Hux would have been more willing to continue with their game, to work beside Ren and act as though nothing had transpired between them, as if he wasn’t bothered by Ren’s presence…

_You’re nothing besides an expendable sycophant, Hux. It’s quite depressing, honestly, that you’ve made such a mess of yourself. The things you’re willing to do for even the slightest bit of praise…_

Hux understood, though. He understood perfectly.

_This is why they wanted to stifle your deviance. Because they knew you were a danger to yourself._

_Weak-willed._

_Sickly._

_Useless._

 


	2. Epilogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> completely optional epilogue including MCD.

 

**Epilogue**

 

Armitage Hux was not a fighter.

He was a strategist, a man born with a greater brain than that of his father or his mother, a fool and a servant, people who denied themselves a chance to amount to anything. Hux was different, on some level; he _understood_ what it meant to crave, to hate, to _crush_ emotion between his balled fists or clenched teeth, let it bleed away from him just as his life had.

Passion was worthless, after all. Ruminating on the past would allow a man nothing, would _gift_ him nothing, not even pain. Though perhaps it was all a triviality, now.

It was always Ren.

It was always _Ren,_ and Hux had known from the beginning, sought to end his own longing, his own _pining,_ the dreadful thing that it was. After all, Kylo found him repulsive, didn’t he, and vile?

_Expendable._

Oh, how right he had been. Snoke had _never_ seen Armitage as befitting of a throne, Kylo had never seen him as anything more than a _nuisance,_ his own father had denied him for being a _bastard,_ too needy, too idealistic.

And the Resistance, well…

_Psychopath._

_Monster._

_Disgusting-- abominable-- wretched-- abhorrent-- bastard, bastard, bastard--!_

Hux thought about what he might’ve wanted from life, were he to live past today. He considered, perhaps, leaving the Order. What it might be like to settle, somewhere far away from the influence of chaos and battle. Waking up to a _sun,_ to air that wasn’t modulated from a ventilation system, to have strong arms loop around his waist and a body crowding him from behind.

He imagined kissing, soft, contemplative, allowing his mouth to open, to be tasted by his partner. He imagined hands, warm against his frigid skin, underneath his shirt and gracing the small of his back, pulling him flush to that solidness, that _heat._ He imagined what it might have been like, had Ren stayed with him, had he reciprocated the endless longing that Armitage ached from, that his body sung with--

But not in this universe.

Another, perhaps.

The former General gazed up at his executioner, the glint of a lightsaber in the man’s black-gloved hands, sparkling with power, a harbinger of fate. His face softened, briefly, a hint of smile crossing his lips, more mocking than pleased.

“ Any last words?” The voice carried over the crowd, firm and unwavering, though disinterested, it seemed, when it came from pouty lips and emotive eyes.

Armitage Hux merely laughed.

_“Please.”_

…

 _“To the slave and the civilized-- we all fall down._ _  
_ _In the great shipwreck of life, we all fall down.”_

**_-The Great Shipwreck of Life, IAMX_ **

**Author's Note:**

> i'm probably going to go on hiatus for awhile, but if you want to talk, it's [@symphorophilian](http://symphorophilian.tumblr.com) for my tumblr, as always.


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